


Habits

by Mamarralun (orphan_account)



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Drabble, M/M, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 14:59:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5460629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Mamarralun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are moments when the words that flurry around his head in endless circles become too much. They stop feeling like clouds or circling birds and winds, and begin to resemble the hurricane that walked all over Nevis when he was younger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Habits

There are moments when the words that flurry around his head in endless circles become too much. They stop feeling like clouds or circling birds and winds, and begin to resemble the hurricane that walked all over Nevis when he was younger. 

He can’t write them down, not like he needs to. They’re not right, they’re not finished thoughts, scramblings of words and incomplete phrases, they’re unreadable, they make less and less sense when his hand smears the wet ink in an effort to grasp every turbulent idea. They’re not right. 

Not as if there’s a choice. Missing an idea, not capturing it in the slightest, letting a single spider-spun, silky thread used to climb out of the hole made by circumstance snap? Unthinkable. He can feel them tensing, though- as the flurry grows thicker and stronger, can feel each one he attempts to jot down grow taut, flexing under the stress of being unrecognized. He trails here for some time, grasping at every thin thread, before comes to a point where he mistakenly writes the same idea multiple times.

The winds dissipate, for a moment, then, and he realizes then, of course, that the words have been smushed and smudged on many more entries, and rewrites every legible one multiple times (often in threes, in three different places). The words usually quiet during these undertakings, as if hurricanes were in the habit of politeness. 

Sometimes, John walks in the room to the polite eye of the tempest, seeing papers fanned out and crumpled around Alexander, the papers and his hands smeared with ink and ideas, phrases, a thesis or two, rewriting them all in his different papers (his journal, his notes, his books of relevant reference). When he rests a hand gently on his love’s shoulder in these moments, he can persuade him to stand, stretch, perhaps eat something, and share their time in compatible silence. The thoughts seem to slow, the papers are sorted or cleaned up, and Alexander can rest. 

The first time John had stepped foot into the complete winds, the catastrophe, he was ripped apart. Interrupting the panicking man had only made things worse. The storm had whirled faster before Alexander’s eyes, his throat had even closed in the sheer, overwhelming panic of not grasping the ideas, not being able to pluck them from his head and represent them on paper. In the end, he had ended up shouting at John and crumpled, sitting, on the floor, half-blinded by the feeling in his throat and chest and gut. 

Apologies were issued, and they had comforted each other in quiet, hushed tones, foreheads pressed together, small, soft kisses exchanged that not only settled the storm, but reassured, as well, that everything was alright once more and forgiven.

After the first encounter, John observed the next, letting the storm work through its warpath, and then, in other storms after, learned to redirect Alexander to rewrite his blurred words in whatever patterns he wished until he would be in a state to be persuaded to be comforted once again. 

Eventually, Alexander found, that while the storms would come and go, John stood a constant, steady object in the buffeting winds. Some days, still, Alex can see that John is weary and not as mountainous as others, yes- as no man can stand weathering the storm forever, and John has his own host of problems, but this time is spent in bed when possible, the two of them humming waltzes as Alexander finds comfort in keeping time and John in Alexander's presence. It is spent lying peacefully and feeling the solidness of one another, the sureness of their existences, to themselves and each other.

In these grounded moments, Alexander dares to think that the inevitable mental hurricanes to come are bearable with John at his side, to say the very least.

**Author's Note:**

> so, i don't know what the HECK is going on with tenses (it's supposed to be some sort of ongoing tense, that refers to the recent past, present, and recent future, and i change once to recount a past-past event and just, lord help me. or a grammatician, maybe. that'd be nice.) anyway i wanted to flex my writing muscles a little bit. it's been like three years since i've written anything.
> 
> i wanted to explore a little bit of ocd stuff that i personally don't experience, but could sort of? apply the way mine presents itself to a situation i'm not familiar with? it was interesting.
> 
> catch me @mamarralun on tumblr


End file.
